


did i ever tell you (you're my everything)?

by gvtiss



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pride, Pride Parades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 00:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20805815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gvtiss/pseuds/gvtiss
Summary: a certain angel and demon attend a pride parade.





	did i ever tell you (you're my everything)?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bratassly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bratassly/gifts).

> happy (late) birthday genius (:
> 
> beta'd by the lovely TrilliandZaphod  
remaining mistakes are my own!

In an antique bookshop situated on the corner of a street in Soho, a certain angel is sitting quietly in his armchair, one leg folded primly over the other, flipping lazily through the morning newspaper. There's the usual political mess concerning the faults of Britain's new Prime Minister, whole pages full of commentary for recent football matches, and a lengthy interview from an influencer trying to sell their weight loss pills. Aziraphale scoffs quietly at all of them but keeps reading nonetheless. A little while ago he had, after all, found out about an auction for rare novels through the paper. Christian Fall's _The King's Men_ stands proudly on a shelf near the back of his store, guaranteeing none would ever spot it in their blasphemous efforts to shop in A. Z. Fell & Co.

So yes, skimming through adverts for hair gummies and rugby scores is worth it in the case that Aziraphale should find a hidden gem.

He sits there, browsing, for the next half hour, eventually moving on to completing the crossword puzzles. This week's questions prove to be especially easy for Aziraphale, and he has all the boxes filled within a few minutes. Most all the questions are about celebrities such as Peter Mandelson and Freddie Mercury, and Aziraphale notices the common factor between them quite quickly: they all deal with matters concerning the gay community. Surely there must be a special occasion, he thinks, for the paper has never been so liberal.

Aziraphale's answer appears at the very bottom of the last page — a message from the editors reminding readers that London's 45th annual Pride Parade was to happen the following week. It piques his interest immediately and he sits up in his chair, causing his spectacles to fall and clatter on the table. Very interesting, Aziraphale thinks as he puts the glasses back on. Very interesting indeed. 

***

They're sitting on the floor in Crowley's flat. Aziraphale is running a comb through the demon's vibrant red hair. The only noise to be heard is their gentle breathing and the soft rustle of trees outside. After a few minutes, Aziraphale grins and goes to find a mirror. When he comes back from the bedroom, Crowley is lying down on the floor, stretched out like a sleeping cat. If Aziraphale knew how to take a photograph, he would capture the scene; a wild snake in his natural habitat.

He sits back down beside Crowley and hands him the mirror, "Take a look at your hair, darling. I've nearly gotten the plaits right this time."

"Ah, yes. Wonderfully done, Angel. Thank you," he says, mostly to see the smile on Aziraphale's face get bigger. 

"It's no problem at all. I am glad you've finally accepted the fact that you look most wonderful with long hair. I was starting to miss your Elizabethan locks." 

Crowley sneers in disagreement, "You're the only one. That get-up was a sin."

"That _get-up_ was a beautiful display of fashion in ancient times. Have some respect, Crowley."

"Whatever, I still think it was hideous," the demon enunciates his point by waving a hand in the air. He's completely serious but subtly grinning nonetheless. Teasing Aziraphale is always fun.

Said angel looks like he's only a few seconds away from causing his companion to inconveniently discorporate. "Anyway, on the topic of fashion, I think you would look spectacular in a flower crown."

"No, absolutely not, no way," Crowley splutters out. "You'll catch me pulling down the Queen's knickers before you see me with flowers in my hair." A second later, there's a strange crown-shaped weight on his forehead and Aziraphale is chuckling. He takes the mirror and holds it up to Crowley. 

"Oh, bollocks. It actually suits me." Crowley, still flat on the floor, ponders how his life has come to white roses in his hair and cute angels putting them there. Well, just one cute angel.

That's when said cute angel gets an idea (an experience akin to when a giant light bulb appears over a cartoon character's head). He waves his hand around a bit and turns the flowers rainbow. The things he has to miracle these days...

Aziraphale's grinning from ear to ear. "Look, Crowley. I think this crown would suit you perfectly to wear at an upcoming event in London. Say... the pride parade!" he says, casual as can be.

"The what?"

"London's 45th annual Pride Parade. A marvelous chance for individuals of all backgrounds to get together and celebrate themselves and each other."

"You've been bursting to say that all day, haven't you?" Crowley cocks his head to the side, well used to the angel's inability to keep anything to himself.

"Perhaps," is the small reply that comes. Aziraphale clears his throat and tries again, "I just think it would be a tremendous thing to experience. All these people who have been victims of derogation and unwarranted hate get to march, once a year, to fight back. I can only imagine the absolutely overwhelming feeling of love there is to witness at such an event." He finishes speaking and gives a small smile, waiting for his companion to say something, anything.

"Sure."

He grins, "So you'll go?"

Crowley (still comfortably spread out on the floor, thank you very much) fingers the flowers intertwined in his hair and makes a noise halfway between an affirmative and a groan. "Like I always say, heigh ho. Long as you don't blabber around about love auras the whole time, I'll go. Don't see why you're so passionate about me tagging along, though."

"Oh Crowley, thank you! Seeing as it is a day for loving the best part about yourself I couldn't deem it possible to attend without my best friend." And then he's out the door, rambling about needing to prepare something or other, leaving Crowley to process what was just said. There's a thought niggling at the back of his mind, but he can't quite figure out what it is. Might as well sleep off the confusion, he decides, and passes out without further delay.

***

The sun is just starting its creep under the horizon when Crowley wakes up, very much discombobulated. Although that can be attributed to waking up in the evening. He feels like he's in a jelly, but at least Crowley thinks he's figured out the meaning behind Aziraphale's earlier words. Yes, it would seem he has. And he knows exactly what to do about it.

***

"Don't tell me you're actually wearing those."

"What's wrong with rainbow arm warmers, dear? They're stylish!"

The snort that escapes Crowley can almost be considered inhumane (definitely, if you take in the fact that he is indeed not a human) and Aziraphale rewards him with a reprimanding glare. Crowley says, "You and your ugly fashion choices. I thought tartan was bad, but this? You finally fit the bill for single dad regretting his conservative teen years."

The angel actually has the audacity to blush, quick to deny the accusation, "I'm not single though, nor am I a father. And besides, where's the fun in wearing black all the time?" He wrinkles his nose in disgust at the mere thought.

"Wait, what? Not single?" Crowley asks. Is his whole plan going to fall apart right here, right now?

His friend sighs, "Yes, Crowley, keep up. I have you! Moving on, I simply _need_ to find my patterned socks. I _know_ I left them somewhere here." He scurries off at speed to find said socks, once again leaving the demon in an absolute state of confusion. Aziraphale reappears not even two minutes later, sporting rainbow socks to match the arm warmers he had found at a thrift shop the day before. "Come on, dear, let's get cracking. The parade should be starting within the hour. Though I hope you won't be going in all black... a bit of colour should suit you well."

The unfortunate thing is that Crowley seems to have been struck by a silence spell. He's standing in the same position he was in before the festive socks made their appearance, gaping at Aziraphale. 

"Sweetheart, are you alright? We really must be going soon." All of a sudden Crowley livens up again with a shake of the head, reminiscent of an Etch-a-Sketch being cleared. 

"Yes of course, why wouldn't I be?" he asks. "Come on then, let's get a wiggle on." Immediately after saying so, Crowley looks appalled; is he adopting Aziraphale's vocabulary? Oh Satan, this is going to be a long day. 

***

They walk, hand in hand, to keep with the pace of the crowd. If it was not for this, Aziraphale would be rushing around to get a glimpse of everything there is to see, every float, every stand, every adventure to be had. Alas, Crowley won't let go of his hand and Aziraphale feels no need to change said fact. His eyes are taking in everything, however. He sees it all as a love letter to those who fought for their place in society; he could write a hundred poems about the harmony of thousands of people coming together to be fantastic.

Crowley's familiar voice breaks the angel out of his daydreaming, "Enjoying yourself, yeah?"

"Oh, of course, dear! Everything is lovely. I could melt from the pure presence of lo-sorry, happiness." 

There's that grin again. Crowley is positive he will be the one melting soon. Pushing that thought aside he adjusts the sunglasses atop his nose and blushes the faintest bit. Going for casual, he asks, "Why're you so interested, anyway? 'S not like you exactly fit the qualifications – what're they again? LPGT?"

"Why it's LGBT, of course," Aziraphale responds with the same passion he would exude if he were talking about Charles Dickens. "Besides, there are very little 'qualifications' for being queer, Crowley. It is, after all, about unity despite differences."

The demon asks "Personal experience, then?" He nearly regrets the question, but Aziraphale answers before he gets the chance to.

"Have I ever told you about Oscar Wilde? Lovely chap, he was. I was terribly heartbroken when I learnt of his passing."

It takes Crowley only a few seconds to connect the dots. When he does, his mouth drops open, "Hold on. You? Shacking up with that famous book bloke? Never would have seen that coming in a million years."

"Crowley! He was not 'that famous book bloke'. He was only one of the kindest and wisest men I ever had the pleasure of getting to know. Besides, he only ever published one book."

"That famous poetry bloke, then. Didn't he die from meningi—" Aziraphale shoots him one of those looks "—sorry, know he was your ex-boyfriend or whatever. But I still can't believe that you've tried the whole dating thing."

Aziraphale scoffs. "You could hardly call it... that. It was short-lived considering his arrest. I always do wonder why I didn't just conjure up a miracle to free him from that hateful cell."

"He knew, didn't he," Crowley says, his gaze softening. "Oscar knew you were an angel and convinced you not to mess with his fate."

"Yes," is the soft, small response. "I must admit he was reported to have gained a sudden liking for Christianity."

Crowley lifts one delicate eyebrow. "Haven't a single idea why that could have been."

"None at all."

They share a smile, hands still together, hearts still focussed on one another. The pair seem to have forgotten by now that they are attending a Pride Parade, meant for loud cheers and sing-songs, not broody reflection on ex-lovers. What brings them back is the starting of a chant in the crowd: "WE WILL, WE WILL, ROCK YOU!" Every third beat is punctuated by a clap. Aziraphale, partly to himself, asks why everyone has developed a sudden need to impair their own eardrums.

Crowley, fingers tapping against his leg in a three-beat rhythm, answers for him, "They're celebrating a man of great significance, Angel. A man who taught so many people how to love."

"Personal experience, perhaps?"

"Did I ever tell you about Freddie Mercury?"

***

"Let me get this right: so you and Wilde had that thing while I was off sleeping for a century..."

"And when I went to Romania for a year, you were..."

"Lost. I was lost, Angel. Freddie wrote a song about you, you know. He was lost, too, and we helped each other."

Aziraphale looks at his friend in confusion, "Have I heard this song before, dear?"

"Not likely," Crowley chuckles. "I'll put in on when we drive home." They both choose to ignore his choice of wording — home. They are each other's home, after all. No need to bring attention to it. It is one of those facts of life, an unchangeable constant. 

They finally partake in the festivities happening around them. They buy flags and bracelets, look at the floats, and enjoy everything Pride has to offer. It will be over soon and they've spent most of the time talking. But sure, Pride happens every year. Why not start a tradition?

Whether they realise it or not, both Crowley and Aziraphale are fully intent on coming back next year. The city is alive with colour and spirit; hands wave up in the air; chants blare through megaphones and the crowd repeats them, a mantra of sorts. This is it, Aziraphale decides. This is what being human is about. 

***

In a black Bentley, an angel and a demon are laughing and dithering about, wrists adorned with symbolic colour patterns that mean very little to them, but everything at the same time. The demon, dressed in all black, asks his friend where they should head to now. The angel thinks for a moment, then decides on a lunch trip to the Ritz — at a table for two in the back, he adds. It should come as little surprise to an onlooker that in a moment of passion, Crowley, red hair almost alight like a rose caught under the gleams of Heaven's light, pulls Aziraphale into a spectacular kiss. And as for what happens next, well, one can only assume.

**Author's Note:**

> abs ily can't wait for scotland uwu  
leila u the real g 😔✊


End file.
